


Take me to funeral

by orphan_account



Category: Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF
Genre: Blood, Chronic Illness, Depression, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, James has chronic depression, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27727825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The purpose of each day for Michael is to make James happy, to remind him how much, how passionately he is loved. Deep inside James knows he means everything for Michael, but the illness takes its toll, making him try horrible things again and again. The illness tells James he should relieve Michael from the burden of himself. One day Michael braves to leave James alone for barely an hour. Then he returns home to find him unconscious on the floor, smeared with blood.
Relationships: Michael Fassbender/James McAvoy
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Take me to funeral

**Author's Note:**

> The story is terribly sad and tragic. The grief is in every paragraph and the topic of the whole story is their love, so baaadly wounded by the illness. Everybody's hurt here and characters behave very dramatically, so feel free to stop reading if you feel that triggers you.

In the end, he couldn't make it, appeared to be unable to, despite all his efforts, so desperate, yet miserable. They didn't help to save James. He let his love down, he let him drawn in grief and blood, and there wasn't any possible way to forgive himself. Not now. Not after everything. He deserved the worst; to be tortured and destroyed, to live in hell forever, because he let his angel fall. James was laying in front of him: ghostly transparent, still, lifeless. 

-

He returned home after that cursed meeting and immediately began to call James, needing him the most, needing his presence, always making him feel painfully warm and vulnerable, and loving. 

"James!" 

The dark suffocating mist of silence surrounded him from everywhere. It was filling him with concern, swiftly growing into fright. 

"Love! James! Please!" he called again and again, bitten, scalded by despair. 

His legs were moving then, he was running fervently, screaming James' name, biting his lips, and cheeks, and tongue, blinking away the tears. Finally, it was the bathroom. The walls were shaking and gleaming blindly at him, resonating with his sickness, and James was on the floor, whole white and numb, and alienated from the world. Michael craved to scatter into pieces, to become one with the floor, embracing his beloved like even water, to lose his vision and ability to feel. 

All these thoughts existed in one moment which soon creaked and torn apart, and Michael fell on his knees, crying, grabbing those sharp shoulders, then finally reaching for the wounded wrists. The pale subtle layer of skin was mutilated, dissected by the lines of cuts. They didn't look wide but were long and still bleeding. 

Michael took the wrists, squeezing them firmly, absorbing that foreign coldness, as if he was holding thin branches, enveloped in white frost, fragile to any impact. 

"Oh, James! Please!" he was shouting between sobs, but his love remained mute to the touch. 

Michael lifted one hand to his white cheek, then to the forehead. James felt cold and damp, and as if trying to spoil everything completely, Michael smeared his face and chest with blood. That lean chest raised and fell slightly, however, and the heart was beating almost palpably. 

"James, James, please!" Michael couldn't stop himself from shaking and whining, although he knew that it was necessary to do something immediately, to call for help. 

Yet his brain was dysfunctional, his body was of no use, whole his mind only pleading for it to be a nightmare, pleading to be able to wake up in his bed near James, alive and unwounded. Then James gave a barely audible moan, his shoulders shook.

"Oh, please, I call... I'm calling for help, just don't leave me, James, just... Please, don't. I love you. If only you can hear me, please, please, be sure that I love you and always will," his breathing hitched at that, and his throat pulsed with cramps of burning pain. 

He didn't notice when his face became whole wet, salty, and crisp from tears, but it wasn't a surprise and there wasn't any way for him to keep them away.

"James, I hope you can hear me. I know you love me. But if you're tired of me, if you can't make it for me, I beg you to hold on for the people who love you. The whole world loves you, James," Michael blinked away the blurriness, then didn't dare to wipe away those few vast drops, having fallen on the dreadfully pale cheek. 

That cheek was once plump like a ripe apple, Michael thought and helplessly blinked again as if deliberately wetting James with tears. In their far happy past, now giving Michael's chest the crumps of phantom pain, the trauma and exhaustion weren't making that face so sickly thin. 

"James," he called shakily, not weakening his grip on the red-stained wrists. He wouldn't ever give up — James was worth everything, every attempt and effort. "James, I love you and adore you. The world around adores you. I wish you could open your blue eyes and see how's beautiful the sky behind the window. How nice is the air after the rain this afternoon... And I dreamed to cook you a splendid dinner this evening, something new to impress you... We'll enjoy all of it when you wake up. Please, let me and others help you. We love you. We want you to live and be happy. Please, do wake up."

No response came. James' mouth was slightly, helplessly opened, not trying to grasp the air though; his chest was heaving almost imperceptibly as if the lungs were afraid to work. 

-

Now the torture was the same but in the white, dry air of the hospital. His head was unbearably heavy, so he allowed himself to lower it on James' bed, near his pale exhausted face, and tears were flowing freely, warming the pillow, deaf to his painful inner sobs. 

James saw him like that when woke up. Michael sat still, pierced by the ray of freezing light, his face mortified, eyes bloodshot and dead. He smiled though, almost habitually, because the worst was left behind.

"Hello," Michael tried, softly. "I'm so glad you're here. Thank you and God for that." 

The ocean-blue eyes glanced at him in bewilderment which was gradually shaded by anguish. Michael bit his lip at the sight. That's what he made from his lover — a poor doll, searching for relief in death. 

"Oh, Michael..." 

"No, it's okay. I'm okay. You shouldn't talk if you don't want to. I'm glad you're looking at me, that's enough for now." 

"What I?.. Did I?.." 

"Your veins were cut, two cuts on each wrist... Blood loss was profuse... They made transfusion and it saved you... I..." Michael rubbed his face, trying to wipe away the renewed flow of tears. 

He didn't feel them in his throat already, they didn't sting, but poured on their own volition, poisoning him with harsh bitter saltiness. 

James stared at him, terrified. He didn't mean to... He only wanted to release Michael from the burden, to return his previous successful life, to let him share his inner sunrays with other people. He shouldn't be a prisoner or a hermit anymore. James' prisoner... James felt he couldn't go on, so he decided to give himself up for Michael's sake because Michael was still healthy and sane. He could lose his energy and his opportunities if James would have drawn him further. 

James couldn't witness his sufferings anymore, couldn't see the constant sense of grief, diligently hidden under that charming soft smile. Michael would have felt wounded, but he would heal since he didn't have those scars, torturing James every single minute, making him die from fright and shame. 

"Michael, I'm sorry..." 

That I couldn't make even that, couldn't end my life, gave you hope again, prolonged your misfortune, James was adding inwardly again and again. 

"No, you've done it... It's about me. I should have disappointed you. I upset you or scared... I'm so sorry, James. I left you. I shouldn't have gone to that meeting. That's... that's my fault, dear, I'm so deeply sorry."

"No, you... I... hoped it would make things better. I love you. I wanted to... rescue you from myself." 

"Oh," Michael gasped helplessly. "You nearly killed me... But you shouldn't worry. I'm so happy you're alive... If... if you want, I can leave for now. If you don't want to see me. Maybe, for a few hours?" 

"N-no, no... Stay by me... Please. I'm so sorry that I hurt you. It was so cruel, it was awful, I know, Michael, I understand it. I've done that... I've cut myself because I'm ill. Only because of it. Not because of you, you've been doing everything for me. I love you, you're a gift, a miracle," James blinked, letting the tears spill. 

Everything before his eyes was blurred now, and he felt hardly conscious but sharp and incandescent claws of guilt were holding him tightly, tearing his heart apart. He'd hurt Michael so badly that it couldn't be forgiven, it just couldn't. 

"James, James..." Michael kept wondering how good that name felt in his mouth, how good was to say it to alive James who could hear and answer him. His heart was going to tear again. 

"How could you... I was out for barely an hour. Was it on impulse? You seemed normal when I left you in bed. You said you were fine." 

James tried to shake his head or to turn it on the side, to hide from Michael, but the movement only made him groan in discomfort. 

"Unfortunately, after the last time I did it to myself... Oh, I'm sorry, Michael. I'm so sorry to remind you. But after that attempt, I began to plan the new one immediately. I pretended to recover, to be calm and trying to communicate with the world. In reality, nothing interested me. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I was only waiting for you to lose caution, so I could try again. When you said you probably would leave for an hour, I instantly thought I'd try. I was really alright, comparing to my worse states. But it's not because of recovery — it's because I was hoping to end my suffering..."

Michael collapsed into sobs, unable to listen further, and James kept repeating in the torn whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." 

"And now," Michael managed. He still forced himself to be strong for James, even if it already didn't have any sense for the latter. James' brain was too ill for struggling. "Are you planning it again now?" 

"Honestly, yes..." James squeaked, his throat sore from tears. "It was the first thought that came into my head when I felt conscious. That I couldn't do it, which meant I had to find some new way and try again. And to mislead you again so you won't stop me. I'm... I became a terrible person, Michael. There's nothing left from James you knew. You shouldn't love me anymore because I'm not James — I'm a wreck." 

"No, no," Michael breathed, touching his head, very gently gliding his fingers through the strands of brown hair, wetted by tears. 

Those eyes were shining like the warm water under bright blinding sunlight, and Michael couldn't resist wiping those eyelashes and exhausted eyelids with just the tips of his fingers. Fortunately so, James didn't loathe him, at least not yet, and usually, he allowed Michael to touch him. 

"You are James. I can see it. And I love you like before. It's only your brain is ill," Michael said softly, kissing that tensed temple. 

Despite all misfortunes, James was still alive, laying in front of him, breathing, able to see and talk, and it was too much for Michael, too good. That happiness was intertwined with the realization that James was ready to wound himself to death and leave Michael alone, and that he was still so much in pain, the maddening pain that Michael appeared to be unable to take away. The realization made him shake from tears. It made him stare at James and forget to breathe, mentally begging him to not give up. 

"Please, stay with me. Whatever miserable I am, be merciful and forgive me that. Stay and let me try again!" Michael should've said that. He would. His insides would stop swirling, and then he'd say James everything, then he'd drop himself to his legs, embrace them, and never ever would give the smallest hint that he didn't need James with every fiber of his soul.


End file.
